Pictorial history of the war for the Union, volume 2 (of 2)

by Ann S. Stephens

The first act of the American Cousin had commenced, when President Lincoln, Mrs. Lincoln, Miss Harris, and Major Rathbon entered the theatre. General Grant was not of the party; he had left Washington a few hours before. They seated themselves, with the National flags draped above them, and the eyes of a brilliant audience turned that way. The President was always deeply interested in the dramatic performances before him, and sometimes, doubtless, sought the theatre as a refuge from political cares. That night no premonition seemed to haunt him. He was tranquil, silent, and interested. Usually, when he visited any place of amusement, his youngest son might have been seen hanging about his chair, whispering his observations in childish confidence, and sometimes leaning for half an hour together upon his father’s knee. The devotion and companionship which existed between Lincoln and this warm-hearted lad was touching in its simple tenderness. No frown was ever seen on that kindly face when the boy, in his ardent affection claimed what might have been deemed untimely notice. Whatever thought harassed his mind, those connected with the boy always brought smiles with them.

But, in mercy, this most ardently loving of sons was spared the horrors of a scene that soon sent an awful shock through the audience, and threw the whole nation into bitter mourning.

The play went pleasantly on, and nothing happened to disturb the cheerfulness of the occasion, till, close on ten o’clock. Then John Wilkes Booth was first seen in the audience.

This young man was a member of the profession, and had a free entrance to all parts of the theatre, where he was a great favorite. The son of perhaps the most talented tragedian known to our country, belonging to a family of young men all rich in genius, accomplished and endowed with wonderful physical beauty, he had found a respectable place even in the best social life of Washington, during the three months that he had spent in apparent idleness at one of the most fashionable hotels of the city.

When this man entered the theatre that night, many people knew him, and some remarked the intense pallor of his face. He was remarked, at this time, to be slowly working his way through the crowd towards the door of the President’s box. For a moment he was observed leaning against the wall, pale, and with a startling wildness of the eyes, looking over the audience. Then he attempted to enter the box, but was challenged by the sentry stationed there. Booth answered that he was a senator of the United States, and that the President had sent for him.

He was admitted; the door closed behind him, which he immediately fastened by placing a wooden bar, arranged in advance, across it.

He moved toward the President, and stood for an instant behind his chair. The stage was almost deserted. Asa Trenchard, represented by Mr. Hawk, was its sole occupant. Mr. Lincoln was watching the scene with his eyes bent on the stage, quiet, calm, almost smiling. Booth crept closer to his victim, drew his pistol, and fired. A spring toward the front of the box, a backward lunge with the bowie-knife, held in one hand, which pierced Major Rathbon’s arm, wounding him severely; then a wild dangerous leap over. His spur entangled itself with the flags, and the impetus flung him forward on the stage, where he fell upon one knee. An instant, and he leaped up, brandishing the naked bowie-knife in his hand, which was red with the blood of Major Rathbon. In a strong, clear voice, thrillingly dramatic, he cried out the old Latin motto of the State of Virginia, “Sic semper tyrannis.” With these defiant words on his lips, Booth rushed across the stage, down a side passage, where his red hand almost brushed against Laura Keene, and out of a rear door which opened to a lane back of the theatre.

There a horse stood ready, held by an accomplice, on which he leaped, and dashed down the lane. The audience for one awful minute were struck dumb. The smoke from the President’s box, the excited shrieks of Mrs. Lincoln, which rang with awful meaning over the crowd, threw the whole multitude into bewildering confusion. Only one man had presence of mind enough to understand the awful truth, and pursue the assassin. Colonel J. B. Stewart, a tall, powerful man, full of cool courage, leaped upon the stage from the orchestra seats, and rushed after Booth across the stage to the rear of the theatre. Once his hand almost grasped the assassin’s garments, but the door which was flung open fell to with violent force, and Stewart lost a precious moment in attempting to open it. It swung back at last, but Booth had already leaped to his horse, and, in an instant, was engulfed in the murky darkness of the lane.

Meantime the crowd swayed wildly to and fro; shrieks of anguish from distracted wife rang through the multitude with maddening effect. The President had fallen forward, with his head on his breast, breathing, but senseless. The ball had entered his head just back of the left ear, passed completely through the brain, and lodged above the right eye. Laura Keene rushed to the box, calling for help, and aided Miss Harris to support the murdered man in his seat. There, pale with terror, one pleading for help, the other crying out for water, those two frightened ladies kept him from falling forward with their trembling hands.

The crowd understood the awful catastrophe now, and a mad rush was made for the stage—all too late. By that time Booth was galloping through the stormy night, on a horse whose swiftness defied pursuit. Then the inner bar was forced away from its rude sockets, and there was a rush to the box where President Lincoln was still supported by those feeble women, who stood by him firmly, their hands red with his blood, and their garments wet with the crimson rain which never came from a more thoroughly kind heart. On the back of the cushioned chair, on the partition, and on the floor, that martyr blood had fallen. On the carpet lay a single-barreled pistol.